Milton's Master
by yelloweeeee
Summary: How did John Thornton become what he is?  How did he and his mother live all those years on nothing? What was it like to leave school? This is the story of John's struggle .
1. Prologue

I have decided to pimp up this story and completely change the way I'm telling it. It will be from John's POV now, and I hope its a better read. I will be updating the prologue and chapter 1 now. Later chapters will be updated later only if you like it and review! LOL

Enjoy and please review!

**Prologue**

_Milton,_

_The Hale household_

How had such a pleasant conversation about Arkwright's inventions turned into such a fiery conversation about the indecencies of Milton? Come to think of it, how had my attention turned so swiftly from Mr Hale to his daughter? Ah yes, I remember. I was captivated by the way she was giving her opinion so openly and blatantly. _Captivated? _Since when have I been captivated by anything other than the figures I write in my ledgers? Or the date the next batch of cotton had to be shipped?

Beautiful as she may be, I could not but feel a stab of hurt at the accusation – which undoubtedly included me – she had just hurled. I set my cup down on the table next to me. My expression had been gradually growing more serious, but after the most recent lash of words it became stern and dark.

"We Masters are not all the same, Miss Hale, whatever your prejudices against Milton men and their ways".

"Oh I have seen the way you treat your men. You treat them as you wish because they are beneath you –"

"No I do not –"

"You have been blessed with good luck and fortune, but others have not"

"I do know something of hardship"

The words slipped out before I even knew what I was saying. I never spoke of my past with _anyone. _The topic had not even come to light with Mother. But something about the sharp, direct answers of young lady sitting in front of me compelled me to say something in retaliation. Something, anything, to hang onto the dignity that I felt had been slowly slipping away this evening. _Should I tell these new acquaintances about Father? _I contemplated. I looked into the eyes of Miss Hale again and noticed that my words had sparked not just curiosity, but an irritated glare that reminded me of a mother wanting to know what wild madness had possessed her child to act in an irrational manner. The look, although emphasizing the beauty of her eyes, unnerved me yet again and I knew that the only way for me to give a justification of any weight was to first tell them about Father's suicide and then about the troubles I faced thereafter. Taking a deep breath I said in a low and controlled voice to all in the room;

"Sixteen years ago, my Father died under very miserable circumstances. I was taken from school and had to become a man in a few days. I had such a mother as few are blessed with, a woman of strong power and firm resolve. This made the beginning: this taught me self denial. Now that I am able to give my mother such comfort as her age requires, I thank her silently on each occasion for the early training she gave me."

I waited for another reproof. But there was nothing. Miss Hale, along with her mother and father, had lowered her eyes, apparently taken aback by my confession. I suddenly realized that I might have said too much. That this family who seemingly had not seen much in the way of suffering and worldly struggle, were shocked that a man who could be so cruel to his workers had himself struggled through life. The atmosphere in the room had grown instantly cold. None in the room had said anything and I knew that conversation was no longer going to be paramount.

"I have outstayed my welcome", I said, standing up to go. Mr Hale, polite and courteous as ever, stood up and insisted that it was not the case. I knew better however, and did not waver in my intention to leave. Looking once more at Miss Hale I took a step closer to her and held out my hand for her to shake.

"Come Miss Hale, let us part as friends despite our differences. If we understand more of each other's ways we may learn to be more tolerant".

She turned away from me, completely disregarding my proposal and the common gesture of courtesy. I curled my fingers back in to my outstretched palm, my knuckles turning white from the force at which I did it. How can such a beautiful, intelligent creature be so rude?

I wanted to storm out the house that second, for I feared I would lash out at her otherwise, but knew that I still had to take my leave in a somewhat courteous manner. Turning my head to Mrs Hale I gave her a quick bow and turned towards the door.

I was glad when the cold night air hit my face. It calmed my fired-up mood. As I walked home I went through the events of the evening in my head. I was almost embarrassed to remember how transfixed I had been by the way Miss Hale had poured the tea. How I had immensely enjoyed watching the bracelet sliding down her arm in unison with her movements, and then her shoving it back up with an agitated huff. But then that damn conversation had started, and the dainty, elegant Lady was firing accusations at me from all angles. Though I was ashamed to admit it, I had enjoyed the banter just as much as watching her pour tea. And I knew that, despite her manner of such direct speech, she did not have much experience in the world of toil, and certainly not in the relationship between Master and Worker. But that did not stop me from being extremely annoyed at the fact that she had so directly pronounced that Milton was an uncouth place in which workers were treated like scum. What did she know of these things? Did she not understand that the living conditions of a worker was just the way things where? And that a Master can only provide so much in payment to his workers? The payment they receive and the hours they work is not an unfair and quick decision given by a Master who could not care less whether the families of those very workers eat a meal that day, but rather part of a carefully worked out budget that must be adhered to in order for the Mill to prosper. Of course, I knew Miss Hale would not know any of these things, but I wished she would take the time to understand Milton better. Then maybe she would understand the reasons for how its inhabitants live and operate.

Another thing I knew she would not know was the years of struggle Mother and I faced once Father had died and left us. _Left us_. That's what he did, took his own life after making a stupid, foolish decision to place a huge amount of money on a speculation. Of course he lost it, leaving himself in a very large amount of debt. Then he couldn't take it and killed himself. I still can't forgive him for that. It upset Mother so much. And Fanny was only a small lass. They both missed him terribly. And me? Well, I had to pick up the pieces he left. I was the one who had to work long, hard hours just to get ourselves out of the mess. I had to leave school. I loved school, but I had to pay off the debt he had left. I made damned sure I earned enough money to pay every single penny of, and my family were not put in the same horrible, humiliating position again.

All those years of hard work did pay off, and now I am a Master of my own mill, but _only _after all that hard work, and Mother's continual encouragement. So who was Miss Hale to think she knew how to run a Mill? Who was she to tell me, as if it was my fault, that the conditions of my workers are poorer than mine? She would not be able to even begin to imagine what life used to be like for us. How we had been forced to spend days sleeping out on the streets. That was a fate I knew my workers were not facing. I made sure of that, at least.

As I was mulling over these thoughts, I reached the stone steps to my house and suddenly realized how tired I was. The evening's conversations had certainly given me much to think about. Well, tomorrow was another day at the Mill, and one in which I knew there was much work to do. There were many orders to fill and accounts to write. I slipped upstairs to my room to get a good night's rest, determined not to think anymore of Miss Hale and her pouty, miss-guided opinions.


	2. Life as it was

**Chapter 2**

**An Unforgettable Memory**

_Milton, _

_16 years before prologue_

"Eh John, do you know what we've just heard?" The short boy said. He had one of those thick Milton accents.

"What?" I replied in a tone that was hardly excited, I was not really interested in what he had to say. But I decided against telling him that.

"Something about a huge speculation. My dad was talking about it yesterday. Gonna be a big'un".

"I don' know why you're so excited ". I replied, half turning to walk away. I really didn't understand what all the excitement about spending all your money was, when you really don't know if you're going to get it back. The boy, who's name was Mark Slickson, spoke in an even quicker tone. Evidently, he was much more excited about this then I knew.

"Ah but that's where it gets interesting, see. My Dad's going be joining in with it, and if you ask me, he's gonna be well off for it. And he said your dad's going have a go too. Best thing to do, I say. Else you don't know what's gonna happen to your money". He lowered his voice to a tone that could almost have been a whisper, if it were not for the bubbling enthusiasm that was still as evident as the sky was blue.

"My Dad said this is the hugest one they ever had, six hundred pounds he's bided. Don't tell no one, will you mate? Only he told me not to tell".

_Six hundred_. Dear God! I could only hope that Father wasn't as foolish. I knew he had taken to gambling of late, exactly how much I did not know. Surely he wouldn't put _that _much at stake?

I waited impatiently for dinner to end that evening. I was going to ask him about this new speculation, and maybe I can at least see how far he is into it. I rarely have opportunities to talk privately with Father, he would be out of the house a lot of the time. But it was necessary, and I was determined to speak to him. Once Mother had gone to put Fanny to sleep, I approached him. He was sat at the table with one leg crossed over the other, reading a newspaper. It was a good sign, it showed he was relaxed.

"Father", I started, moving slowly closer to him. "I've heard about a speculation that's going on. Is there a lot of money involved?"

"Where did you hear that?" he answered, immediately putting his newspaper down and looking at me with a suspicious stare.

"Someone mentioned it today".

"Did they, eh? What else did they tell you?"

"That you are involved in it".

"Well maybe I am, and it is big money, not that it's any concern of yours, John. You should be thinking on your studies, not pondering what I'm doing".

There was my answer. He was _very_ deep into it. How much I did not know, and I doubted if I wanted to. The only thing on my mind was to somehow persuade him to not gamble so much.

"But Father, why are you speculating with so much? What of you lose it? Do you really need to..."

"I said it's none of your concern. What do you know of business, boy? Now pour me a drink and run along to bed. I don't know when you became so nosey".

My Father was now very far from the relaxed position he was in just a few moments ago. He was raking his hands through his hair and I was sure his skin had turned a shade of pink. The fact that he had reacted so much to what I had said made me even more worried. He was stressed, very stressed. I knew instantly he had put a huge amount of money on the line. I dared not think again on it, but I had the scary suspicion he had used all of his money. The money that was supposed to pay for the servants, for food, for Mother, for my _school! _

I wanted to tell him he couldn't have the drink he had asked for. That was another worrying thing that Father had recently fell into the habit of doing. He was slowly becoming an alcoholic. But there was nothing I could do, and I knew it. Father would never listen to what I have to say. He had not listened to anything I had to say for a long time, he preferred to play with my sister. But that was only when he was not out making wild speculations or drinking.

I walked forward and reluctantly poured him the wine, making sure to only pour him half a glass and pick up the bottle as I walked out the room. As soon as I had shut the door behind me, I rushed to the kitchen to hand the bottle to a maid to put away. Hopefully, Father will not need it again that night.

The day was cold and damp as I sat at the small wooden table, quill in my hand, writing out my thoughts on the industrial revolution Milton had found itself in these days. It was a fascinating subject, with business and trade being things I was eager to explore. Not that Father encouraged me in it - he was much too interested in finding out the outcome of the speculation that had taken place recently. Still, I loved learning and took the utmost pride in my studies. The room was quite, each student immersed in their writing. That was until there came a loud knock on the door, followed by a small boy entering the room looking as if he had news of the utmost importance to tell.

"Mr Dobby would like to speak to you, John. He asked me to come and tell you at once".

He said, in a tone that suggested equal importance as that of his expression. Why would the Headmaster wish to speak to me so urgently? Without uttering a word, I arose from my desk and left the room. A horrible sickening feeling was forming in my stomach.

"Come in" I heard Mr Dobby say after I had rapped on his door. As I entered the office, the sickening feeling grew considerably, for I saw one of Mother's servants standing there with a horrified look on her face. I was about to ask her what had happened, desperate to know whether something had happened to Mother or Fanny. But Mr Dobby spoke first – in a tone very unlike what he would normally use. It was shaky and quiet.

"My boy, sit down..."

"Please tell me what is the matter, Mr Dobby, for I know there is something".

The look on Mr Dobby's face changed somewhat. He knew I would not, _could not_, sit down.

"John" he began again, "I am sure you are wondering what I have called you here for. It is indeed a great matter, one that I am not certain I can speak of..." Here there was a pause of a few moments, before he spoke in a voice yet again altered. "Mandy, would you like to walk home with John? You will find your answer there, My Boy."

This made John even more worried to the point of demanding to know that very moment, but seeing Mr Dobby's face grow even paler than Molly's, he found he wanted to get home and find out himself rather than stand here any longer. Turning around instantly and almost storming out the school, he headed home as quickly as he could. Not remembering or caring that his mother's servant was supposed to accompany him. He had to find out what happened.

Once he had reached the house and opened the front door, the sinking feeling in his stomach doubled, and his gut instinct was that the terrible thing that had happened concerned his father, as he had feared for so long. He instantly ran to his fathers study, slamming in to the back of the butler who had just left the same room he was trying to enter. He grasped John's arm saying "No, Master John. I don't think ya should..." But John wasn't listening. He freed himself from the man's arm and burst open the door. What he found in there shocked and horrified him. He was prepared for something bad, but not this...

His father's chair was in the centre of the room, with the table in front of it, as always, but on top of the table hung his fathers figure. A tight was rope around his neck. He was facing away from John, but he knew his father was dead. The completely immovable figure and the growing stench told him so.

John didn't know how long he stood there, transfixed on his fathers back. Stunned. "Father!" He whispered. "What happened...how did it get so bad?" Silence fell again. The only sound in the eerie room was the boy's deep and quickening breath, followed by the pounding in his eardrums that accompanied his heartbeat. Finally John has the strength (or maybe it was curiosity) enough to walk around the desk and look at his father's face. It was an image that would imprint on his memory as the horrific result of his father's troubles and certainly became the last memory he had of him. His mouth was agape and his head tilted to the side in an unnatural angle. Later the physician would say that the rope must have strangled his neck hard, breaking it instantly. There was no sign of struggle or bruising. Undoubtedly, it happened very quickly.

After leaving his fathers' study, John's first thoughts were of Fanny and his mother. Surely his mother would know. But what about his sister? He half ran to her room and was relieved to see her sound asleep, evidently oblivious to what had happened downstairs. Placated that his sister, at least, was well, he went in search of his mother. He eventually found her sitting at her chair in the dinning groom. She was staring, just staring... John came to her and kneeled in front of her. He could see her eyes were bloodshot and that many tears had fallen from them. The puffy eyes looked no better than her face, which was a gaunt white from the effects of – exhaustion? Shock? He could not quite tell, though both were probably the case. Silently he put a hand on her lap. Wanting to let her know he was with her. She did not move, nor did her face alter for a long time and slowly John's head came forward to rest next to his hand on his mother's lap. He exhaled with his own shock at his father's actions and worry for his mother, who still had not stirred. Eventually, though, she raised her hand to her son's head stroked it. It was both a silent acknowledgment of his actions and a thank-you which would be the first of many silent gestures that were to pass between them. And given out the deepest of love that was only expressed in such a way, for both mother and son did not show feelings very often. But between it was all they needed to be reminded of the love the other had for them.

"When..." John whispered after some time.

"Early this morning". She replied, her voice low and strained with tears.

"Did you hear...?" He knew he did not need to elaborate on the question, and simply waited for the answer. At long last it came in a voice even lower than before

"Heard nothing till the servant found him. Just seemed very frustrated at breakfast. Could tell something was wrong but did not have chance to...I should have spoken to..."

"No, Mother". He said, springing up from his position. "It was not your fault Mother. I'm sure whenever father decided to...to...he would have done it. There was nothing you could have done to stop him".

"Yes, your father was always very stubborn..."

More silence followed for a time. John resumed his position at his mother's lap, squeezing her hand every so often. Eventually he spoke in the same low voice they had been talking in

"Fanny is asleep. Does she know anything?"

"No, thank God. She was having a lesson with Mary. I instructed her to keep her in her room once she had finished. The next time I went up, she had fallen asleep".

"We will have to do the same tomorrow, till we get...till...out of...the house".

"Yes, we shall have to arrange..." Her voice trailed off again. There was an unmistakable rise in her voice as she almost spluttered out the last word. John knew tears were forming in her eyes again.

They did not sleep that night, and declined offers of food from the servants. They could not eat at such a time, and the funeral needed to be arranged. Since John did not go to school, he took it upon himself that his sister did not get bored or suspicious at being in her room most of the day, and played with her, although his own heart was very heavy and sad. But he knew his sister would have to be told why there father was not with them anymore.

The funeral took place a few days later, with a fair amount of people attending. They stopped to offer condolences to Mrs Thornton and her son. But both knew they were not given from their hearts, for their eyes would momentarily gleam with sly laughter at the knowledge that George Thornton had committed suicide and the sorry state of debt he left his wife, now a widow, in.


End file.
